To the End of the World
by Louise24601
Summary: Emma's life is turned upside down when she realizes her husband Adam Gold is the leader of a dangerous criminal organization, and she must live as a fugitive with a man she barely knows, Killian Jones. In a place full of hostility and danger, they have no choice but to trust each other and look for shelter wherever they may find it, even if it takes them to the end of the world. AU
1. Chapter 1

**AN** : This is rather a long chapter but I thought it was necessary to really ground the story… I've been thinking about writing this (or something like this) for a long time, so I'm eager to read your reactions. It's a little different from what I usually do, a blend of horror and romance, probably dark in tone. Hope you'll enjoy it. Comments are welcome.

…

Maybe the right way to think about it is through dominoes. Yes, now, Emma's sure that's what it felt like. Imagine a great line of dominoes the length of a great house, cold and straight and bleach-white except for the little blotches of color on the surface.

The blotches are red, of course. But we'll get to that.

Emma was twenty-one years old when she married Adam Gold. At the beginning, it felt very peculiar to use his first name – around town, everyone knew him as _Mr. Gold_ , and there was an air of awe about it. Mr. Gold wasn't just anyone. People shrank to let him through when he walked in a room, and they stood up, waited for him to greet them with a nod before saying, _How'd you do, sir?_

That he was much older than Emma had never seemed to matter. Really, in town, you got the feeling Adam Gold was much older than _everyone_ , had been the first one to arrive to Storybrooke and would be the last one standing.

So many years have passed that Emma can't really say what attracted her about him. His ageless charisma and the power radiating from his presence must have been a part of it. Now, it'd be all too easy to call her a fool, but she was young – so young she was nearly a different person, barely a woman. And there was something magnetic about Mr. Gold. The black, expensive suit, draping his body like raven wings, down to the immaculate leather Derbies on his feet, whose elegant tread would make everyone so nervous. It was like watching the villagers hurry to get everything in order when the monarch comes to visit. Mr. Gold's smile was not pleasant, but it had a certain allure – precisely the allure of experience, though his face showed no trace of age, was smooth like the surface of a mirror.

Oh, anyway. No point in thinking all of this over. Though it should count for something that Emma wasn't unhappy with him – there were actually a few moments of genuine joy, happening nearly at random. When she picked a fresh rose from the garden and trapped the scent in her lungs, and he parked the car in the driveway, coming home from work, and smiling at her – _Careful not to prick your thumb, dearie. I've been told that's bad luck_. That was happiness, probably, the blind happiness of ignorance, but how would she have known the difference?

But then something happened and the dominoes started tumbling one after the other, their house of cards blown into the wind before Emma could realize it was gone.

It was her fault, really. She'd been away at her parents' house for a week and he wasn't expecting her for another few days, but she'd meant to surprise him. Mr. Gold wasn't the sort of man who enjoys surprises and she ought to have known that, had been married to him for the past six years, so you could say the blame was partly hers.

Maybe just for standing on the altar in front of him and saying _I do_ , when his smile was wicked and his eyes were cold as ice, when she should have known better, when she should have run for her life.

…

Emma didn't come home early that day just to discover how evil a man her husband was. One of her colleagues had called because of a huge administrative problem, it was an all-hands-on-deck situation, and it would really help if Emma could be back by Monday morning. She'd thought, fine, driving home on Sunday afternoon. She'd be back early enough to surprise Adam and they could go out for dinner – nowhere fancy enough that would require a reservation, but Emma wasn't keen on those, didn't really care whether she got her food from a five-star restaurant or at Granny's.

Of course, Adam would act very polite and concerned about the problems at her workplace. She didn't think he suspected she could tell, even from the mock interest in his voice, that he thought of her job as a mere hobby. Harmless but unrequired, given how much money he made being the head of his nation-wide successful enterprise.

Emma didn't really know what his enterprise _was_ , if it sold insurance, paper, bloody buttons. Didn't even know that it sold anything. As a rule, she and Adam never talked much about his job; this, she recalls, was as much her fault as his. She never asked, for starters, and he had a way of making it sound like it would bore her. Also, he actually came off as chivalrous for not hogging the spotlight. The extremely wealthy man who'd rather hear about his wife's day at work than show off with extraordinary tales of how he'd tripled the number on their bank account in just two years.

It was flattering for them both. Oh, she always fought the stereotype but part of her _liked_ being seen in relation to her all-powerful husband. Though she was a smart (not as smart as she thought) and educated woman, working among people she respected, it was pleasant to be more than that. As if Adam's mystical charm cloaked her and gave her an almost supernatural allure.

She liked being Emma Swan, but she also liked being _Mr. Gold's wife_.

If Emma's guilty of anything, that's the heart of it – not negligence and certainly not complicity. But you be the judge of that.

When she came home that Sunday evening, a little excited – and, for whatever reason, a little afraid – she parked in the driveway and realized Adam's car was gone. Though night had fallen already, it was only six thirty p.m. Probably, her husband was still at work, which nipped Emma's plan to surprise him in the bud – he'd see her car when he came home, and she wouldn't want to show up at his workplace and risk interrupting him while he was doing something important. That he never talked about his work had actually made Emma take it much more seriously than she would have, if she'd known precisely what went on in that enterprise of him. If she had access to those business meetings, her husband's daily labor, then surely she'd realize it wasn't so impressive, was just like any other routine work.

Surely.

Well, so much for spicing up their marriage by having her husband think she was full of surprises ( _he_ was fuller of them than she could guess). She'd just call him at work, ask around what time he'd be home. Maybe order something for dinner – Adam liked homemade food but Emma had never had the knack of cooking or otherwise playing the housewife.

And he'd never made her.

 _Does that count for something?_ She asks. _You tell me_.

Unlocking the door and stepping inside her unlit house, Emma realized she'd almost never been alone there at night. How strange the shape of some objects appeared, when they were all too familiar in broad daylight. The majestic curve of the banister, the stairs climbing upwards, deeper into the layers of darkness.

Switching on the light in the hall didn't fully remove this sense of strangeness, as if Emma had walked into a house that looked exactly like hers but wasn't _quite_ , had an alien air to it.

Now, Emma was rather eager to call Adam and for him to get home as fast as possible. _You're being ridiculous_ , she thought, but didn't manage to shake the impression that she'd set foot in a hostile dimension.

Hastily, Emma fumbled through her purse for her cell phone, but just as she was about to speed-dial her husband's number, she saw something, in the corner of her eye, something that made her hand still, her whole body alert.

At the opposite end of the corridor, the basement door was unusually opened, and a lamp was burning bright at the bottom of the stairs.

Emma could count the time that she'd been to the basement on the fingers of one hand. It just wasn't a room they made much use of, never even stored anything of importance there. Why would Adam have gone down there? Why would he have left the light on? It just wasn't like him, showing negligence.

"Adam?" Emma called.

Startled at the fear in her voice. You can't deny what the body betrays. She was afraid, in her own house, calling for her own husband.

No answer came. Instead, there was a muffled groan. It made Emma think of a wounded animal but human.

"Jesus," she breathed, making her way towards the light, slowing inevitably as she reached the staircase. "What's the matter with you?" Saying the words out loud to break the overwhelming spell of silence. "There's no one down there. He just forgot to switch the light off. People forget."

But the sound of her voice didn't sound reassuring, was outweighed by the sudden ominousness of the house. _It's like it's alive_ , she thought, _but it's not my friend_. The house, actually, no longer felt _hers_

(it was never hers)

but _Adam's_. This should have felt reassuring, but it didn't, of course.

Slowly, one footstep after the other, Emma climbed down the stairs to the basement. All the time, confusion ruled, and she alternately couldn't understand why she was going down there, why she was afraid and why she hadn't started being afraid long ago.

Suddenly – amusing enough that it should feel so sudden, when Emma's descent seemed to have lasted ages – Emma was standing at the bottom of the stairs, and what she saw punched the air out of her lungs. Somehow, she'd known something terrible was waiting for her here and yet it must have been on an unconscious level, because things couldn't _really_ change, because after all she was happily married and tonight was a night like any other.

Except it was not.

In front of Emma was a man – not a man, a _prisoner_ – because his hands and feet were tied to the chair he'd been made to sit in, thick inches of rope that looked a little like snakes.

"Oh God," someone said, a woman's voice, probably her own. " _Oh_ my God."

A layer of silver tape covered his mouth. Blood trickled from his left eyebrow, he looked roughed up but not seriously injured. Distress in his eyes, a _stranger's_ eyes, trying to communicate, and Emma knew she ought to listen. But right now, the man wasn't a man, just some terrible ungraspable thing that had happened to her, shattered the screen between her world and the truth. He was the sky that had fallen on her head.

How long, before she was able to move, to think – who could tell? There are moments when time loses all meaning.

She made her way to the chair and ripped the tape from his mouth still without really thinking. It seemed like the thing to do. The chair he was sitting in had been brought down from the dining room – Emma had always liked those chairs, so beautifully old-fashioned, the sort you would have found in an enchanted castle.

 _I'm dreaming_ , she thought.

Then the man started speaking, exhaling as if he hadn't breathed in months, filling the room with the proof of his existence, and she knew she was not.

"Thank heaven. I thought for sure I'd die in here. I don't mean to rush you, love, but do you think you could untie me? He could be back any minute."

Emma stared, could do nothing _but_ stare, couldn't fully convince herself the man before her was real. For starters, you could tell he didn't belong in Storybrooke. There was something altogether too rugged about him for him to have been bred in this town. He had a foreign air to him; it wasn't just the accent. Everything from the way he was dressed to the lively spirit you caught glimpses of on his face, the twitch in his mouth, the way his eyes moved, felt like a vivid opposition to the domestic sphere he had so brutally intruded. _Undomesticated_. He made Emma think of the sea, for some reason – maybe just because it would have been just as absurd to discover it was hiding inside her basement.

"Who are you?" She asked.

"All in good time," he promised. Was trying to smile, to look charming, as if he might coax her into letting him go. "I've got nothing to hide, you got my word on that. But I'm sure you realize we haven't got all day. I suggest we both get out of here before he gets back."

"Who?"

"Rumpelstiltskin, of course."

Emma wanted to speak, but it felt like what would come out of her mouth would be insubstantial and absurd, like soap bubbles. _A prisoner bleeding in my basement, talking to me about fairytale creatures._

The stranger looked extensively at her, the blue eyes lingering especially on her face and on her wedding ring – it was a ruby, unusually enough. Adam enjoyed defying the norm – _red's the color of lust, dearie_. _Let's not go with what's expected – let's be more honest than that, shall we?_

 _Honest_ , Emma thought.

The man smiled at her, a smile that was indefinable, not charm, not games and not sympathy but something that might have inspired all three.

"Mrs. Gold, are you?" He said. "And I'll bet you don't know, don't have the first idea, who your husband is."

Sighing. Looking uncompromisingly at her. His voice didn't seem to come from his body but somewhere far away from here, a place whose depths went beyond Emma's understanding.

"I'm sorry," he didn't sound sorry but made an effort to _look_ it. "This is a shock to you, but I don't have time to explain – you need to untie me so we can get out of here."

Practical thoughts made it easier to keep it together. Crouching to the man's height, she started tugging at the ropes around his wrists. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled to the elbow and she shuddered at the touch of warm skin, the pelt of black hairs on his forearms. Sudden apprehension rocketed her heartbeat, at the thought of touching another man than her husband in his own house. How ridiculous. _Honey, I swear, this isn't what it looks like_. And what _did_ this look like, anyway, her struggling with the ties of a complete stranger?

Maybe the man was full of lies. Maybe he'd broken into their home and Adam had restrained him before going to the police. Maybe –

"No, you're not going to go anywhere like that," he interrupted. She'd managed to loosen the ties a little, but there had to be a quicker option. "Why don't you go get a knife upstairs?"

The reflection in his eyes was a miniature of Emma's face, different from how she'd ever seen it. She looked like a fearful cat with all its hairs standing on end, faced with something it doesn't have the means to identify. Enemy or friend? The stranger, her _husband_. If one was the latter than the other was necessarily the former.

"Oh, you can trust me, love," he sighed. "I'm not the dangerous kind."

She didn't believe _that_ for a minute. But it was plausible to think he wouldn't try to hurt her, was just looking to save his neck – and anyway, what else was she supposed to do, let him rot?

"I'll go," she said, moving back to better appraise the stranger, smiling at her even from his predicament. "When I get back, I want you to tell me who you are and what you're doing here."

"Fair enough." He agreed.

…

Climbing back upstairs, returning to a more familiar environment somehow made Emma feel even curiouser. To find a man tied up in your basement isn't exactly everyday material, but at least the basement was unknown ground, even had the uncanny eeriness of nightmares – as all basements do. Upstairs, the world as Emma knew it reemerged, but bathed in this same dream-texture of danger, so everything she knew was reinvented. Like looking into a face you know by heart and suddenly find a mere change in the features – say, a wicked smile – can _transform_ it beyond recognition.

Fitting she should have this thought in mind, when she stepped inside the kitchen. Padding the floor as noiselessly as she could and not even switching on the lights, as if the house would wake up and betray her – the chandelier falling from the ceiling and pinning her to the ground until the master of the house came home to find and punish her.

 _This isn't really happening_. Of course, it was, but Emma couldn't imagine the night would have real consequences.

Though the room was dark, the huge window pane opening on their garden and a moonlit sky enabled Emma to make her way to the right drawer and comfortably fumble for a knife – she was thinking, big or small, and should I take just one, in case the prisoner tries to take it from me?

Something else she might have seen through the window, if she had looked, was her husband's car, parked next to hers.

"Looking for something, dear?"

Emma started, clasped a hand to her breast, turning round to find her husband standing by the doorframe.

She hadn't heard him walk in, hadn't heard his key in the lock – but then, she wasn't sure she'd locked the door behind her and Adam was always very good at surprising people. Moving himself in utter silence, like a cat that's somewhere one second and gone the next.

Her husband didn't look different from when she'd last seen him. It was the same long silver-brown hair framing his face, the same elegance in his arched brows, the same paradox of playfulness and patience in his eyes.

Yet her heart hammered in her chest with senseless terror. _I'm afraid of my husband_. She waited for the words to feel absurd and for the fear to vanish but they never did.

"I was –" Emma started.

"Early." You couldn't tell, from the look in his eyes, whether he was pleased (yet again, you could never tell most of the time and Adam Gold was a _very_ difficult man to please). "I wasn't expecting you until another few days."

Swallowing the lump in her throat. Casualness was the last thing that might save her. _He doesn't have to know I went down to the basement_. "I wanted it to be a surprise," she smiled, pretended there was no irony in such a statement.

Adam gave the kitchen a look of appraisal. "Why didn't you switch on the lights?"

Good question indeed. _Why, why, why?_

A chuckle left her husband's lips. Strange, that his smile was not really different from usual, that he'd looked exactly like this when he'd kissed her goodbye a week ago or asked for her hand in marriage.

"Ah, never mind that." He resumed. "Come closer then – that I might give you a proper greeting."

But Emma didn't move, felt her bones freeze inside her body. _He wants to get me away from the drawer._

Adam looked fixedly at her for a few seconds, and they were cold, fatal seconds. Merciless in his decisions as ever. Right now, Emma needed to believe she'd never _known_ his mercilessness, had never had an occasion to witness it, but something in her gut knew she was wrong; there'd been clues. But there was no time to call herself a fool.

"Oh, dearie," he sighed. "You look like you've seen something you shouldn't have. Tell me, did the light draw you in? You were always too much like a butterfly, attracted to shiny things, going places that are best left alone. Curiosity killed the cat, Emma dear. There's a reason why people say that."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You wouldn't look at me like that if you didn't."

No, probably not.

In fact, Emma realized her eyes were wide with apprehension, her mind wild with horrific visions. Any minute now, Adam Gold would zip out of his husband suit and he'd reveal himself as the monster that had always lurked behind his tame marital affection. He'd look like a grinning goblin, something horrible.

Why were people so cautious to please him around town? Why did they stand up when he entered a room? Not because they respected him. Because they _feared_ him.

Hadn't she always known this, in the back of her mind?

"I am sorry, dearie," he said. Took only one step closer, offering his face to the moonlight that gave him a spectral halo through the window. He looked like a being made of midnight-black. "You were never meant to look behind that door, to know who I was beyond our private life – I assure you. This isn't what I wanted. You were going to stay at my side as I grew old, bear me a few children."

"No."

"Don't fight this," speaking softly, intent on sparing her unnecessary suffering.

Before there was time for resistance, he was leaning into her, stroking the side of her face with his fingers. It wasn't cold or frightful like the touch of Death. Just her husband.

"People will say men like me are incapable of love," he said, "but that's only lazy thinking. I did love you, darling. You should know this, right in this instant. I never loved anything more dearly. It's only that people must believe love is unconquerable, surpasses all other ambitions. I had better plans for us. But I'm sorry to say, Emma," to his credit, the look in his eyes did look rueful, "I have even greater plans for myself."

There were no more words then, but the thick substance of nothingness that followed didn't feel exactly like silence. Adam's hand lowered from her cheek and maybe you could say that he was going for her throat.

No time to know for certain.

Soon – Emma blinked in surprise at the sound – there came a sudden, almost funny-sounding _bang_ , hollow and shrill, an act of betrayal against their grave and grieving silence.

Trying to inhale through your stun-open mouth but finding no air. Blinking again, as if it would take her away from this terrible dimension in which her husband had wanted to murder her and life-as-she-knew-it was right around the corner.

Like a stuffed puppet, Adam Gold collapsed on the ground and behind him was the erect, smiling stranger.

"You're welcome, love."

Emma looked down, didn't feel grateful. The man had used a metal vase to knock out her husband – she remembered being bemused that it hadn't broke, that the vase just lay pathetic on the floor with its scattered roses and the rigid, lifeless-looking figure of the man whose bed she'd shared for six years.

"Is he dead?" The lack of emotion in her voice shocked her.

"Oh, I'd say not."

A few seconds, gazing at scene on the ground, the unusualness of seeing Adam in a powerless position, lying amidst the red flowers he'd bought for her last week and which were beginning to fade – everything he bought her was always red.

"I don't feel anything," she said.

"That's all right." Absently, she noticed the patience in his voice, accepting this moment for what it was, giving her time to gather herself into something whole after the identity she'd built for most of her adult life had shattered.

 _Those pieces never fit exactly as they did, you know_. _Once you've picked up all of the small bits you could find, they never form the same image again. Never_.

"When you're ready, love."

Emma turned to the man. Standing, he looked much taller than she'd expected, calmer than when he'd been in the basement. "How did you get out of that chair?" She asked.

"Oh, you'd loosened the ropes enough that it could be done. When I realized you weren't getting down, heard voices upstairs, I thought it was high time I got you some assistance."

"You could have just run and left me there," she said this matter-of-factly, gratefulness still out of reach.

"What, when you'd gone through all that trouble already? No, Mrs. Gold – I'm a man of honor. Well," he conceded with a twinkle, "let's say a thief of honor. Now, I'm afraid we need to get out of here – it's best we're out of reach by the time your husband wakes up."

"You can run. I'll go to the police."

Now, the stranger chuckled. "Oh, you really don't know what you just got yourself into, did you? Your husband _owns_ the police, Mrs. Gold. You go to them, you'll be dead within the hour."

A shudder crawled down her spine. "Emma," she said. Could no longer bear to hear the title she'd taken pride in.

"Emma," he repeated. She could hear the haste now, in his voice, though he'd been patient enough to mask it. "I'll talk you through the details, I swear, but there's simply no time to argue. If we don't get out of this house soon, we'll both be good as dead – you must trust me."

"Trust you?" A chuckle of outrage on her lips. What does trust mean, when your husband has tried to kill you, when you realize you've never seen his real face in the nude?

Seriousness gave the stranger's eyes a darker tinge. "Cruel as it may sound, Emma. I have no reason to betray you. Because out there," glancing out the window, at the woods surrounding the house, "the only thing you and I will have to rely on is you and I."

No fear in Emma's chest. No room for emotion at all, tonight – strangely enough. _The first second of rest I get_ , she thought, _I'm going to cry and cry and cry_. But she was wrong.

"If I'm going to follow you," she said, a complete stranger, "I'm going to want to know your name."

The smile on his lips looked wicked in its own way, but warmer than her husband's – human enough that there was room for playfulness, _passion_. "You can call me Jones," he said.

It was a decent start. Anyway, it was the start they got.

And so Emma followed the stranger outside, into the darkness – what other choice did she have, would you have done anything else? Well, maybe. As she is being judged for her actions, giving her account of what happened to her and Killian Jones, after they fled her husband's house, she realizes it doesn't matter, what the law thinks.

Emma knows what justice is.

And though her life's crammed full of regrets, becoming a fugitive alongside that man she barely knew isn't one of them.

She looks into the face of her jury and says without shame, "I'd go with him again, if faced with that same decision. I'd go without a second thought. I'd go to the end of the world."


	2. Treasure-Hunting

**AN** : After that first chapter I found I had to put in something lighter before I took the story further. It might get a lot darker after that or be in the tone of this chapter or get altogether smuttier. I don't think I've decided yet, but I'll let you know as I go along ; )

…

Emma followed the man Jones into the woods without asking questions, without really being worried at to what was going to happen to them. Past learning that her husband was not the man she thought he was – was quite possibly the leader of a criminal organization whose range of crimes didn't shy away from murdering his own wife – it didn't really seem absurd to just take the hand a complete stranger offered. Even as the forest around them got darker and darker, as the high grass tickled her bare legs, the alive air of the woods filling her lungs, no wake-up call came, nothing to draw her back to reality –

There _was_ no reality anymore, no solid ground to return to.

There was just the man's warm hand around her forearm, no comfort but an absence of fear that was even more astonishing.

"You okay, love?" He asked at some point.

It might have been hours that they'd been walking. The forest near Adam Gold's house was no joke. Your typical North American labyrinth of wilderness. Maybe they could spend an eternity here without making this realm of nature familiar, recognizing each tree, each rock as if it were pieces of furniture in their living room. Why would she think a thing like that? Almost as if, because she'd just lost her home, it'd make sense that she and the stranger stay there for the rest of their lives. Never coming out for air. Never going back.

"Sure."

"You can tell me if you need a break."

"I'm okay."

"Good." He cast a look at her behind his shoulder without interrupting their walk. Just a brief glance, the flash of a smile, and he was back to making their way through the trees. "We're almost there, anyway."

It was the first time Emma thought to ask. "Where are we going?"

Though he didn't turn around again, she could make out the curve of his smirking mouth. "Believe it or not – we're going to unbury a treasure, sweetheart."

…

She hadn't really taken this to a literal meaning until Jones stopped walking and, letting go of her hand, crouched on the ground, sheltered by the dome-like branches of neighboring trees, and started digging at the soft earth with his hands.

"Um –" Was the only reaction she found a voice for.

"You can help if you like. It's buried pretty deep. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to do it myself, spare your dress – but I'm afraid it's already ruined."

Emma lowered her eyes to what she was wearing, the fabric indeed torn in several places where brambles had got in the way. As time passed, she was beginning to feel more and more herself, the numbness of shock washing off.

She realized the stranger was chuckling, and maybe she wasn't the butt of the joke but she sure as hell wasn't in on it.

"Would you mind letting me know what it is you're after?"

"Well, what sort of thing does a man dig for in the middle of the woods, love?"

"If you're making fun of me –"

"Oh no. That's just plain old me, showing humor in the face of dangerous situations." He sighed, brushed a bead of sweat from his forehead, leaving a finger-imprint of dirt. Emma's heart started to beat very fast at the idea that this was really happening _– I've just run off with a self-avowed criminal in the middle of the night_. Fear mingled with a hint of excitement.

No more of this domestic life she thought suited her. Why was there such an odd relief at the thought that life as she knew it was over? Over completely, _irrevocably_.

And now the man Jones was back to digging and she was smiling – God knew _why on earth_ – she was smiling.

"Is there an actual treasure down there?"

"I'd love it if you could think so for the next few minutes." He joked, raised his eyes to her. Tired with the effort and ever-mischievous. "At Halloween, as a kid, I always dressed up as a pirate."

"You don't say."

What he did recover from the ground was ultimately disappointing – a mere brownish bag that would probably look black if you shook off the dirt. Not big enough that you'd mistake it for the Boogeyman's satchel but still too big to be concealed beneath a man's coat.

"What is that?"

"That," he answered, "is the reason why your husband wants to kill me."

Emma raised her eyebrows. "Please, tell me, what was worth the trouble?"

"Money."

"Figures, but how much?"

"Oh, nothing so bad as you'd imagine. A hundred thousand. Hey, I could have gotten away with a lot more. It's just part of a strategy, you know, to take little from multiple giants so they have better things to do than putting too much effort in going after you. 'Cause that's nothing to such a monumental crime corporation, right?"

"Hum – right?"

"Anyhow. Your husband took it personally."

"That sounds in character."

"Yeah," Jones sighed. "And that's on me, too. I always do my homework about the people I'm going to steal from – that's a basic rule of thieving. It was just my mistake to think even a man like Adam Gold – a man who's known for paying his debts and getting what he's owed – wouldn't bother going after me in earnest just for a hundred thousand bucks. Well, let me tell you, I've been looked for before, Emma, but I've never been _hounded_. You might as well know that's what expects us."

He threw the bag over his shoulder. From where she was standing, in the dark, with his black dirty clothes and the apparently unshakable grin, Emma had to admit he actually _looked_ like a pirate.

"When your husband cornered me in these woods, I buried the money somewhere I'd know how to go back to."

"Is that another rule of thievery one-o-one?" Emma asked. "Knowing your way around the woods?"

He made an exaggerated wince. "Not really. I was a boy scout."

Emma laughed before she could help it. Laughing was magical, a little frightening, like she hadn't laughed in years.

"Anyway. Running from your husband's going to be difficult enough – but without money, just short of impossible."

"Why not just give it back?" She shrugged. "When you were in that basement, when he was beating you –"

"Oh, but that wasn't about the money. Like I said. That's nothing to a man whose organization is worth something in the range of nine digits –"

"You're joking."

"Never."

Emma rolled her eyes at this.

"It's just a matter of principles, I'm afraid. Even if I did give back that money, every dime, your husband's men would still be searching for my ass all over the States – and now, I take it, yours too, which is a pity. So much lovelier and less guilty than mine is."

It felt natural to protest yet Emma never found the will to. Appraising the dirty bag with her eyes, it didn't really feel like she was looking at the end of their troubles. Though she hadn't had time yet to give thought to it before, now it didn't make sense to think her husband – ex-husband, she mentally corrected; however unofficial, the divorce between them was undeniable – would stop at anything to find her or the man she was with. Even if she was his wife, maybe _especially_ because of that. First and foremost because she'd gotten away from him, because she had seen too much.

Though she knew little of his work in general, Emma doubted he was extremely lenient when it came to liabilities.

The look on Jones's face had turned more serious. "They won't think we've gone for the woods," he said. "Not when the city was just a mile away, shining its lights at us, giving us an opportunity for a quicker flight. What I'm saying is that I don't think we're in immediate danger. Quite possibly as safe as we're going to get for some time. So if you need a moment, Emma, you just say the word."

"A moment to what?" She asked, throwing in genuine ideas. "Cry? Scream?"

"Well, maybe nothing so loud. We're not _that_ safe, darling."

It was a wonder he could look anything but ridiculous, with that bag thrown over his shoulder. Emma thought, suddenly, that she should be afraid of him – she used to be very afraid of strangers as a girl, always imagined they might assault or murder her for no reason, when she was alone in a car with them, or when walking down a particularly empty street.

But not this one.

No.

Maybe precisely _because_ they were alone – actually, Emma had this feeling that they were completely alone in the world.

"I can keep going," she only said in the end.

He answered with a tame enough smirk. "There is a good side to this, honey. At least we have each other."

…

 **End Notes** : would love to read your reactions. Please let me know your thoughts : )


	3. Highway To Hell

How huge the woods looked, when you were rolling down across the state of Maine, long stretches of dark wilderness stretching out for hundreds of miles on each side of you. It crossed Emma's mind that it should comfort her – you read that, in books. Persecuted heroes finding solace in the sublime landscape that surrounds them.

Emma herself was in a rather more pragmatic frame of mind.

"If they find us here, we're done in."

"Yes." Jones answered with an undefeated tone.

When they started rolling, around three in the morning, their vehicle was the only one on the road, which had filled Emma with a terrible sense of fatality. Looking behind her shoulder, casting quick glances in the rearview mirror, she had been unable to rest for even a minute, despite Jones's advice. They were like shooting ducks out there. Her heartbeat rocketing, Emma had been certain her husband's car would suddenly glide from out of the woods, and it would pass them by, slowly, very slowly, so she could see his face through the window and it would be grinning like a devil ( _Let's go home, dearie_ ).

Funny, how easy, even _natural_ it was for Emma to fear her husband.

Like nothing made more sense in the world. Almost like she'd been preparing herself for this – like this black pit of terror inside her chest had been sleeping for years, ready to open its mouth and swallow all the moments of joy and genuine affection she and her husband had shared over the years.

As dawn broke and the sun started rising, and especially as they moved on to the highway and became just one car among a hundred others, Emma was able to somewhat tame her anxiety.

"They've got no reason to be looking for this car," Jones said.

It was nice that, though he meant to reassure her, his tone didn't assume an overly gentle touch – he wouldn't infantilize her, treat her like expensive porcelain. After all, she had been married to Adam Gold for six years. In Jones's book, that probably meant she didn't scare easy.

"Really?" Emma said absentmindedly.

For most of the night, she and Jones had been making their way to the woods, and though he often pulled a compass out of his pocket to look at it, it hadn't really struck her he was looking for something in particular. Not until they reached the car, which he'd cautiously abandoned near the wood border before covering it in leaves and dirt. It'd taken them only half an hour to clean it – Jones had specified it should be shining like a penny. When he'd said this, he'd flashed a smile at her that was shinier than anything Emma could think of. "We don't want it to telltale on us," he said, "do we?"

It was near midday now, and with the sun beaming brightly above them, and Jones convincing her that the car hadn't been stolen, Emma nearly managed to gather a feeling of safety. But safety was a blanket full of holes, inexpertly patched together and allowing fear to sink in through every crack.

"Honest to God," Jones promised, but couldn't hold back a malicious smile as he said that word. It wasn't hard to tell that, from all the figures in the Bible, the one Jones would identify with most was the Lord's fallen angel. "Gold never saw me in that car. He's got no way of knowing what I'm driving – or whether I'm on foot, or riding a bloody bicycle."

Emma wanted to laugh – liked how laughing with Jones felt pleasant and dreamlike, but she didn't manage. Tiredness was too heavy, wearing her down. Half-consciously, she noticed Jones had stopped referring to the man they were both running from as _her husband_.

"Just do me a favor, Emma," Jones said, more earnest. "Relax and sleep for a couple of hours. I'll need you to take the next shift driving, right?" He sighed. "No stopping until we've left the state, I'm afraid. Gold will be checking every motel in Maine."

Emma pictured this, for a while. Her husband's long-fingered hands forming a globe in which she and Jones were running in circles. Black spiders trickling from his fingers – a fitting image for all of the people Adam Gold controlled.

Emma didn't realize she was going to speak until the words came out, unceremonious. "Do we stand a chance?"

Jones looked away from the road in time to meet her already-weary gaze. Really. You'd believe she'd been running from him for years.

"Emma Gold," he answered, very much serious, "you are riding next to one of the cleverest thieves in America." No trace of irony or smugness. "You ever watched a magic show, when the magician swirls his cape around the room and vanishes without a trace?" His blue eyes kept level with hers, willing her to mark his words. " _I_ 'm that magician. I've picked my way out of handcuffs, slipped through windows. My fingerprints never made it to a police department. Quite frankly, you're welcome to treat me like the Invisible Man – because that's what I am, in this country. Now, listen," he put on a smile, but that was for show, nothing to genuinely balance with the seriousness in his voice. "There's a hundred quid in the trunk, and I've pulled myself out of trouble with much fewer resources. So yes, love. We have a chance. Maybe not a fat one, but like I've said. They don't call me the Prince of Thieves for nothing."

For a moment, Emma wasn't sure what to answer. "Is that what they call you?" Speaking softly. If she did as he asked and gave in to sleep, she knew when she'd open her eyes, this situation – being on the run with a near-stranger, hunted by the man who'd shared her bed for the past six years – would take on a realer attire, would actually settle over what reality used to be like, until Emma discovered a man tied up in her basement.

Before he could answer, though, she heard herself ask instead. "What do they call my husband?"

The depths in Jones's eyes might betray compassion, but he didn't look overtly apologetic. Truly. She could believe him when he called himself a magician. Just like her husband… Jones appeared to Emma like a man of many faces.

"We'll get to that," he promised. "If you want to know all the stories running about him, Emma – I'll tell you. And when I say, stories, of course, I mean: truth. But first, love –"

"Sleep." She said. "I know."

Without adding a word or taking a few more seconds to drink in Killian's enigmatic face, Emma closed her eyes, rested her head on her palm, leaning into the window. Sleep came, not fraying itself a fast and sure way through her adrenalin-rushed brain, but it came, nonetheless, after long, exhausting efforts. She didn't do it to prove Killian what an obedient partner she could be (already, the thought of herself as Adam's wife filled her with shameful anger), but because she understood this was survival, and under such circumstances, you simply do what you have to do.

She had to admit, as she waited for rest, tiredness like a coat black-as-night and sticky as tar, she felt a little like a cursed princess – or like a fly in a spider web.

"Wake me up in a hundred years." The thought flashed her by with tame amusement. She might have spoken the words out loud.

…

Jones slept for two hours straight when Emma replaced him at the wheel. As he hadn't given her directions, and the only clear thing to Emma was they were trying to leave the state, she went forward, always forward. Seventy miles an hour down route 95. While Jones was out, they passed Augusta. The next big city was Portland. In two, maybe three hours, they'd be in New Hampshire.

Not nearly far enough, to Emma's taste. Jones had told her to relax, but she didn't think that'd be possible until they were at least halfway across the country – maybe halfway across the globe.

Sleep had been regenerating but agitated. Emma had dreamt it was her wedding day, and she was that twenty-something clueless girl, her happiness almost an act of defiance – there had been so many warnings, enough she wished that she could give that smiling young bride a harsh slap.

Concerned friends, good-intentioned acquaintances.

 _Adam's so old, honey_ , from her girlfriends and parents alike. _And he's so serious_. They'd been looking at her gravely as they said this – Emma had dismissed their worries, taken it they only meant that she'd be bored with him, that the age difference had made Adam nothing exciting to a young woman's eyes.

Adam Gold was serious. Most of the time, _dead serious_.

But hadn't there also been a few more hard-pressed warnings? Emma remembered a woman she barely knew grabbing her by the arm, as she was doing her shopping, a few weeks before the wedding. It had been the woman who owned Granny's diner; she'd never gotten such a close look at her before. The bags around her wrinkled eyes were very black, and her gaze was intense, smoldering, as if something in the pit of her soul was burning. Before Emma could wonder whether or not it was rude, she thought the old woman looked like a witch. Emma had tried to pull away, but the woman held her firmly by the forearm. And then, she said, "Don't you know who he is?" Simply. As if Emma would know who she was talking about immediately. "Who he _really_ is?"

The past was so vivid, in Emma's head, as she was shooting through the highway, route 95 was a few seconds away from turning into memory lane.

The few hours of restless slumber Emma had put herself through did little to push back the black wave of exhaustion, looming over her. Sometimes, Emma started at the sudden sight of her husband, grinning at her from the side of the road. That shook her enough to keep her awake for the next few minutes. The mere thought of him, now, was like a jack-in-the-box, a grinning goblin staring at her, beckoning her with his crooked finger.

 _You made a deal with me, dearie_. _Until death do us part_. _And so it will_.

The relief Emma felt when Killian started stirring beside her was beyond description. Emma had been too distracted for the last few hours to pay much attention to her sleeping companion. She was astonished by how quiet he looked – confident.

"How much did I get?" He simply asked.

"A couple of hours."

Emma's eyes darted sideways and caught a flash of his calm blue gaze. "Want me to take the wheel?"

"I can keep going."

He was silent for a second. "Your hands are shaking."

Emma was mortified to realize that was true. The wheel was slippery between her fingers, like touching a black snake that might uncoil at any moment.

"Just take the next exit," he suggested. "We can stop at a convenience store for a few minutes." If not for the slight smile at the edge of his lips, Emma would have been unable to tell he was joking, "I often find shopping helps take my mind off things."

…

Emma stayed in the car while Jones walked into the store. _Why_ , she wanted to know – well, he explained, because it was better for their pursuers to know as little about them as they could. They didn't have to know Emma and Jones had stayed together.

"Besides," Jones had added, "soon enough, Gold is going to be on every television channel with a picture of you, playing the doleful husband, begging for anyone who's seen you to reach out to him."

"You think that's how it's going to play out?"

"Oh, yes." Jones's lips had shaped a perfectly devilish smile. "He'll play the bereft man in love, and I'll be the libidinous criminal who stole his helpless wife. I'm not happier about my part than you are," he added.

Emma hadn't answered. Something about his way of smiling told him that he was.

"Anyway," he went on. "My point is Gold must have a hundred pictures of you from your years of marriage. While I, myself, am proud to have never been caught on camera since I was twelve."

Emma blinked bemusedly at him. "You're kidding."

"Not." Jones laughed at her astonishment. "You'll believe that I can get away from robbing the most powerful men in the country, but not that I can escape selfies, Facebook and Instagram?"

That was a fair point. She allowed him to continue.

"Of course, Gold and his men could have done something about that when they had me strapped to a chair." His smirk became a less warm, a little more wicked. "But that would have meant taking precautions in case I escaped them – which they were too arrogant to consider."

"They can have a sketch artist draw you."

"They probably will." He drew a pair of sunglasses from the glove box. "But come on, how many tall, dark-haired men are there in the country? Just add a few significant details – glasses, a hat, a scarf – and the trick is done." He made it sound so simple; he almost made it sound _fun_. "True, it would help if I wasn't so ruggedly handsome."

Emma let out a scoff that was mostly surprise and only a little amusement. He seemed to find it satisfying enough. "Is that how you usually pick up girls?" She heard herself say – what would be the point in saying more sensible things? All sense had gone out of her life, anyway.

"You mean," he said, "taking them fresh from their homes and driving away with them?"

"I mean being so full of yourself."

That smile on his lips was radiant, unshakable. "Well, I'm not pulling out the big guns just yet. Still a few tricks up my sleeve."

"I'll bet."

When he got out of the car – they'd parked behind a convenience store that looked respectable enough for its kind – he said he'd be back in ten minutes, but those ten minutes felt rather long, to Emma.

Jones had left the keys in the car.

It flashed through her brain that she could drive away, with her husband's stolen money, and ditch her companion there if she wanted it.

Which she didn't – not really because she trusted him, or because she thought she needed his expertise to make it to safety.

"We have each other," she repeated the words he'd told her last night, in the woods.

The sky was bright and blue and the world looked remarkably cheerful – a mockery to Emma's situation. _Trying to trick me into thinking today's a normal day, but it's not_. There'd never be _normal_ for Emma again.

She enjoyed the brief while of solitude she got. Kept her eyes open, because sleep was a slippery slope that might lead to hell.

Finally, she spotted the man Jones as he walked out of the convenience store, a bag of groceries in his hands. With his dark sunglasses masking his gaze – looking more unknowable than ever. _How do you trust someone you can't_ know _?_

Not that it mattered.

Emma's window to escape Killian Jones had just expired.

…

 **End Notes** : I know it's taken me a long time to post that third chapter but I was really caught up with other stories. Please share your thoughts and theories.


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